


Like a Building Thunderhead.

by Caia (Caius)



Category: Captain America, Marvel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/pseuds/Caia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the Civil War crossover (about issue 1 or 2), Sam Wilson tries to take care of his friend. Sex (eventually) ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Building Thunderhead.

**Author's Note:**

> Title prompt by [](http://devilc.livejournal.com/profile)[**devilc**](http://devilc.livejournal.com/). Beta by [](http://lilacsigil.livejournal.com/profile)[**lilacsigil**](http://lilacsigil.livejournal.com/).

A storm was coming. He could hear it, in the back of his mind: the faint and familiar sounds of all the birds of Manhattan preparing to take cover.

Or rather, Sam ("Jim," that is, according to Fury, "Jim Jefferson," not Sam Wilson and *certainly* not the Falcon) corrected himself, one storm had already begun, and the natural electricity in the air and clouds gathering high in the sky meant, if anything, a brief respite in the human storm that had raged for weeks already.

Sam didn't need the finally-attuned instincts of Manhattan's bird population (and they were nothing if not finally attuned; survival among the densest population of superheroes on earth required special instincts) to warn him of that storm. His best friend was in the center of it.

Both of them, really. Over the background sound of Manhattan's larger bird population, he could feel Redwing, grumbling and worrying at his confinement, and Sam sent back reassurance and thoughts of fresh air. Sam Wilson could be given a new identity, but Harlem's only resident falcon was far too conspicuous. Sam didn't *think* the new act applied to birds, but it was ultimately easier for both of them to keep Redwing in Fury's bunker than to try to explain to Redwing that he needed to keep away from Sam in his cover ID.

To Redwing, as to most of Manhattan's bird population, the fallout of the Superhero Registration Act was just another superhero battle, and unlike most of the other birds, Redwing saw no reason why he should not be in the middle of it, fighting at Sam's side.

If only it had been as simple for Sam's other partner, or for the other humans, mutants, superhumans, and aliens involved in this mess.

Sam had watched Captain America in opposition to the government before. Outwardly, Cap seemed to be taking it better: he was still in his red-white-and-blue and did not need to be persuaded to fight for what he thought was right. And it *was* right, Sam believed in it too: enforcement of the Superhuman Registration Act was showing an *appalling* lack of concern for the rights of the people and the rule of law.

Mostly, though--and Sam had more or less accepted that this was *frequently* his major basis for life decisions, although it had taken him several years--he was there for Steve.

And he was worried about his friend.

The rain started up, finally, large heavy drops with just the beginning of a windstorm to break up the heat. Sam tamped down the part of his mind that calculated trajectories for his implanted wings, next to the part which continued to listen to the complaints of the birds.

Bad weather was coming; bad weather for humans and birds, but (they all hoped) even worse weather for the complicated machinery of the superhero-hunters. It was bad enough weather that Sam decided it would be a fair risk to switch "Jim's" route home from his auto mechanic's shop along Falcon's normal patrol route.

The weather brought Sam this luck, too: what little trouble there was for him along the way needed Sam Wilson rather than the Falcon. There was less that Jim Jefferson could do, of course, but presumably an appropriately kind or intimidating word, or directions to a soup kitchen or one of Sam's social worker colleagues would do less to break his cover than a full-on battle with (say) Batroc the Leaper.

Jim's apartment was not far from Sam's, and therefore convenient to the end of his patrol, but it was *not* where Sam needed to be that night.

Captain America needed Falcon more than Sam needed the dubious safety of being someone else for the night.

As Sam wandered, as aimlessly as he could manage, in the direction of a long-abandoned barbershop, he wondered at how much *money* S.H.I.E.L.D.--and Nick Fury personally, in his time--secretly controlled. It would have been a happier thought to be using secret government projects against the government had Sam's oldest and dearest friend not been the outcome of such a secret government project.

The rain was now coming down in sheets. Jim's umbrella kept turning inside out. Sam was soaked and would have discarded it--the Falcon had spent plenty of rainy nights flying the skies--but it felt like an important part of the disguise.

When at last he approached the appropriate doorway, he checked around as casually as he could, squinting through the rain, which obscured his vision--but also, he hoped, that of anyone else--and 'listening' to the local birds, to make sure no one was watching. It would be hard to explain why Auto Repairman Jim Jefferson was going into the boarded-up barbershop.

Sam went inside. There were leaks in the roof; he wondered whether S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had installed them to exact specifications for inconspicuousness. He sat in one of the old chairs, the one *without* the pool of water in it, and flipped a hidden switch.

The whole set-up was a leftover from earlier times--it reminded Sam of the very first time when he was catapulted down S.H.I.E.L.D.'s special barbershop chair with Cap to meet Nick Fury and spar with Dum Dum Dugan. It wasn't the very *same* barbershop, but it was clearly of the same design, save for the lack of a Special Agent Barber to escort him down and (Sam was fairly sure) teleportation technology built into the chute. Stark's or Richards' design, no doubt, but just about everything was and none of them had much choice but to take Fury's word that their headquarters was secure.

Trust Fury or trust the government.

For better or for worse, Sam placed his trust in Steve, and let the consequences fall where they may.

If nothing else, it ought to be really *dry* down there.

It was, more or less, except for a scattering of really wet people and the attendant wet footprints, soaked and shed clothing, et cetera. He exchanged greetings with them, briefly; no one seemed to be too badly injured, which was a relief, so nothing terribly bad seemed to be happening outside. Within a few minutes, their bond brought Redwing to Sam's arm, excited to have Sam back and impatient for the open sky, but all and all not taking it *too* badly.

(If in large part because not even Nick Fury's super-secret bunker could keep out New York's population of mice and rats. Sam had discussed this with Fury before, and been assured that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mice had passed full security screenings; it was simpler than trying to keep them out altogether. Presumably the mice in *this* bunker had a higher level of access than any human in S.H.I.E.L.D. save Nick Fury himself.)

That was one partner located and, up to a point, taken care of. Steve was likely to be more complicated.

Falcon was well-enough recognized that he didn't even have to ask; four different superheroes independently determined whom he wanted to see and gave him Captain America's whereabouts--in the council room, taking reports.

On a moment's consideration, Sam decided to change out of "Jim's" wet clothes first. Dealing with Cap in General-mode would require rather a lot of standing around, and that was best done without dripping on the floor or, worse, on any electronic equipment.

Unless, of course, he *really* wanted to get Steve's attention *now*, and the situation didn't merit that, as of yet. Especially the attention would consist of Steve telling him in the middle of an Important Meeting that he would catch his death of cold.

And he *was* cold, now that he wasn't out in the August heat where the sweat met the rain halfway through Jim's clothing. S.H.I.E.L.D. bunkers had good air-conditioning. To his bunk, then.

In addition to Fury's covert identities, the folks who were expected to stay around the bunker any significant amount of time had been assigned bunks, and as Cap had disclaimed any consideration of his role of de facto head of the resistance--and, perhaps more importantly, was more willing than most to share a tiny metal room with a bird of prey--Sam's bunk was just above Steve's.

No Steve there, though, just his neatly-made bottom bunk; his few belongings, like Sam's, had been put away in one of the lockers at the end of the bed.

It still felt more like home than anywhere else he'd been since he went on the run. Redwing fluttered down onto the top bunk; only home now that you are here, he told Sam.

Sam sent back amused agreement, shedding his clothes quickly. He hung them to dry, carefully, on the head of the bed; after contemplating his costume and the meeting for a moment, he grabbed a towel instead and headed down the hall to the showers.

Showering was quick, cold, and not as refreshing as it might have been; some things government secret agencies did *not* have the budget for, or at any rate, did not choose to use the budget for when they could build another 1/1000 of a doomsday device, instead.

On the way out, Sam said hello to Daredevil, who apparently was not going to take his costume off until he was actually *in* the shower; a popular choice, around here.

There was, however, no more delaying the inevitable. Sam took a *little* longer than necessary to put his costume on, ask Redwing if he might prefer to go hunting, rather than accompany Sam to the meeting, and take the bird--still hopeful for adventure and tired of security-cleared mice--onto his arm. But Steve wasn't going to save him the trouble of attending the meeting by to turning in early and meeting Sam in their room instead, so in a few minutes Falc and Redwing greeted Cap in the meeting room.

Three and a half hours later, Sam was very worried about Cap, and also very bored. Redwing had long since flown away to hunt ultra-classified vermin and make friends with other heroes; half of Sam's brain was enthusiastically accompanying him. Sam wished there was room enough here for him to fly; he almost wished he had stayed up in the rain, even if he had to pretend to be Jim Jefferson or dodge his former friends.

Most of Sam, however, was focused on his best *human* friend. The conversation, such as it as, was going around in circles, with the only real changes when new wet people came in with not-very-exciting reports on the world outside; it was wet, and people were hiding, but there was no real *change* one way or the other.

Steve was looking more and more tired, and, in the way that he did sometimes, more dogmatic as he got tireder. Sam *liked* listening to Cap speechify; Cap was really *good* at it. But when it was a matter of betrayal like this--when it started to feel like he was getting more and more definite, because he was more *desperate*; even Sam's patience started to wear thin.

Nothing especially crucial was happening. Nothing especially crucial was *likely* to happen, soon. Steve clearly needed to get some sleep, before something did, or worse yet, before he *started* something. Stress and sleep loss would dull even Captain America's legendary strategy skills.

When the ebb and flow of people in the room died back to just three of them--himself, Cap, and Goliath, whom Falc had barely met but who seemed to be a scientist and a former associate of Hank Pym (judging mostly from the size-changing powers). Goliath was more interested in the monitors and other gadgets than in either of the other two, leaving Cap temporarily without an audience.

After Goliath had finished reporting and moved on to admiring the equipment, and before Cap could start up on *him* again, Falc leaned over and put his hand on Cap's shoulder. "It looks like the monitors are covered," he looked pointedly over at Goliath. "Right, um. Goliath?"

"Yes, I'll keep an eye on things," he said. "Press the red button for general alert, I've been briefed. And Luke Cage said he'll be in for the graveyard shift. "

"Very good," said Cap.

"And *you* need to get sleep while you can." Sam dropped his voice slightly. "It's been obvious to *me* since I walked in; I'm sure it's *also* obvious to just about everyone *else*." It was pretty obvious that Cap needed a lot more than sleep, but fixing whatever exactly had happened with Tony and S.H.I.E.L.D. and America as a whole was way beyond Sam's abilities.

"Yes, I know I'm tired. I just--"

"Everything's taken care of for now. You've been talking in circles for three hours straight; I'm sure Goliath or Luke Cage can wake you up if you're actually needed." Sam started walking in the direction of their room, without letting go of Steve's shoulder. It was a measure of Steve's tiredness that this worked.

"It's a good thing you're here for me, Sam." The look that passed over Steve's face was the one Sam had first come to know as the Bucky Look, but also served for other absent friends, dead, estranged or otherwise.

"You need *someone* to keep you from talking all day and all night. Sometimes I wonder if they didn't give you the super-speaker serum, too."

Steve smiled ever so slightly. "I'm told that tendency goes back before the serum! People got more inclined to listen once I put on the costume, though." He sighed. "Sometimes I fear they listen too much."

Before Sam could respond to that, Redwing flew up and landed on his arm. Through the bond, Redwing sent the rough equivalent of "Are the silly humans *still* chattering?"

Sam burst out laughing. Steve looked at him in surprise. "Redwing thinks you talk too much," Sam said, by way of explanation.

Steve laughed, too. "Smart bird. Redwing, I'll shut up for awhile. Your partner's right; time to sleep, not talk."

As the two humans silently entered their room and stripped down for bed, Sam did *not* translate his further exchange with Redwing. The falcon wanted to know when it was time to go out and fight, and wanted it to be now.

Sam felt about the same, to be honest, but he knew that if their growing group of refugees were to be kept safe, *Cap* at least needed sleep. With years of practice, he transmitted his fatigue through the bond, leaving aside his restlessness. Within a few minutes, Redwing was out like a light, perched on the edge of Sam's bunk.

Cap didn't seem to require much encouragement, either; once he'd been talked into going to his bunk, fatigue and soldiers' instincts took over and he fell rapidly and silently asleep. Super-soldiers didn't snore, but Falcon had had a fair amount of practice interpreting the sounds of his friend's breathing.

For Sam, sleeping was not as easy; he hadn't had as long a day as Cap had. Still, staying there and getting what sleep he could was probably the best course of action. He lay in his small bunk and stared at the ceiling, worrying about Steve. After awhile, he dozed.

Super-soldiers might not snore, but they had nightmares with depressing regularity; another reason for the present sleeping arrangement, although not exactly one either man had brought up in public discussion. So it was probably only an hour and a half later when the sounds of Steve tossing in his bunk and the names of Cap's old associates started to invade Sam's light slumber.

When Tony Stark showed up in them, Sam woke up fully at the unaccustomed name--despite a few stints on the Avengers, Sam had never known Iron Man very well, and he wasn't an especially familiar face in Steve's nightmares either.

Sam lightly jumped down to kneel by Steve's side. Comforting his friend was something he'd had to do in the past, but it hadn't necessarily made the role any easier. "Wake up, Steve," he said. "It's me, Sam. Falcon." *Go to sleep, Redwing,* he signaled at the same time. He'd learned the hard way that *touching* Steve when he was having a nightmare could be a bad idea; much better not to have Redwing trying to help out!

"Falc?" said Steve, for a moment still in the world of the nightmare. And then his eyes opened and he was, in an instant, awake. "Sam. What is it? Is there an emergency?" He started to reach for the intercom.

"No." Sam had taken the precaution of getting between Steve and all communications equipment. "You were just dreaming again. I figured you'd get better rest if I woke you from it."

"You were probably right." Steve allowed himself to look haunted, and even sleepy, for a moment. "Still. I should go check on things. There are so many people still out there...."

"And many people still in here, *all* of whom will contact you, I swear, if anything goes wrong and needs your help. You're getting rest if I have to hold you down physically."

"I don't think that would be very restful for either of us."

"Which is why you should give in and rest already. Maybe I couldn't take you in a fight, but in your current condition, do you want to try me?"

"If I have to, I will. But I'm fighting too many of my friends already."

"Well, then. Lay down and get some sleep. I'll even tell you a bedtime story, if you want."

"Join me."

Sam paused. "I have. I'm on your side, Steve. Always, at least as long as you don't do anything too *terribly* stupid."

"I know. And it's...always nice to hear you say so." Steve paused. "That's...not quite what I meant, though."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I don't think both of us are going to fit on that bunk." It had been quite some time since Steve and Sam had been involved physically, and, although Sam was perfectly happy to open that door up again in a time of need, he was going to make Captain America ask a *little* more directly than that.

"I'm sure we can manage. If you don't mind being...intimate. We've made closer quarters serve, for long enough. I swear, I will sleep afterwards. Or even if you leave, I *will* do my best to sleep alone. I don't want to force you into anything, just because you're concerned about me."

Sam smiled. Good enough; more than good enough, as Steve had just conceded the original dispute! Now was hardly the time to play 'see if you can get Captain America to explicitly request gay sex'. "Of course, Steve," he replied. "Any time." Sam bent down for a kiss.

It had been some time since he had last kissed Steve Rogers, but, like fighting beside or listening to the man, it was not an experience one forgot easily. It was another facet of the same ideal that was a man; absolute technical skill backed by the utter, transparent certainly that Steve would die for him; and how, therefore, could Sam fail to do the same for Steve?

Not that Sam needed convincing. Not to die for him, ever, and not to kiss him back, either. Distracted by the power of the kiss and the knowledge that he could have Steve, Cap, Captain *America*, again, Sam lost track of whether it was he or Cap, or both together, who hauled the rest of the Sam's body up to follow his lips. The bunk was small for one large man, and the two of them only fit one on top of the other.

Sam didn't mind. Moving would be good eventually, but for now, he was good with close. Also good with on top. And very very good with Steve.

Both Sam and Steve had been sleeping in their boxers and Steve had already pushed the sheets aside, so there was very little between the their bodies. And what a body. There were statistics and medical reports to that proved, scientifically, just how ideal Cap's super-soldier body was, even if Sam could feel that there were more scars than there had been before, scars from years of battles and near-deaths.

Cataloguing Cap's scars was not the point of this exercise. Distracting him from them was. Distraction, and pleasure. Having made up his mind for the moment, Steve was pursuing Sam's with the same intensity and skill he applied to anything else.

Or perhaps it was the merely the same knowledge and strategy; when Cap mapped out the muscles in Falc's back and arms, discovered each tender point to bring out the pleasure, the analogy to the battlefield was almost inevitable.

In a summer storm of friends of friends turned enemies, to see Cap so naked, so vulnerable and yet *never* vulnerable, not while the serum was bonded to his bones and blood and DNA, was more powerful than it ever had been.

Sam was glad in so many ways that this man was on his side.

Or, beneath him, at the moment. On his side would be nice, but it would take some very clever maneuvering in this bunk....

Beneath though, beneath was good. He pressed *down* and oh, that was *very* nice. "C-Steve..." he said. Long ago, this had been the first context in which Steve had insisted on being addressed in private by his real given name.

"Sam," Steve agreed, pushing *up* in return, and *rubbing*. "Can I..." he touched the waistband of Sam's boxers, rubbing his ass quite nicely on the way.

"Yes." No permission was needed, but that he always asked was part of Steve's charm. "Both of us, naked. Now."

There many were advantages to bedding one of the world's premier athletes, and sex in very close quarters was one of them. Sometime Sam would have to ask how, exactly, Steve got both sets of boxer shorts off *without* noticeably disturbing their position, aside from a bit of quite pleasant wiggling and rubbing.

Or maybe he wouldn't. On second thought, he didn't want to know how that little maneuver was an essential part of the fight against the Nazis.

His third thought was mostly incoherent, and had to do with how strong and hot and just plain *good* Steve felt beneath him, and how clearly they needed to continue their rubbing for awhile.

Steve, on the other hand, had other plans. Sam only got in a few seconds of rubbing before he found himself held still by all of Steve's body. "Wait," Steve said.

Sam stopped, instantly, on command. "What?" he said, a little bit concerned and a little bit disappointed.

Steve kissed him on the lips, gently at first, but enthusiastically responding in kind when Sam deepened it. He didn't let go of the rest of Sam's body, though, and Sam didn't push *too* hard, preferring to wait and see.

"Take me," said Steve. He paused, and blushed a little. "I want to open myself to you. As fully and as literally as I can. "

Sam shuddered and bucked against Steve's grip. And then he kissed him again. "There are probably fuller ways of doing that. But if you want me in your ass...well. I'm always happy to do *that* for you.."

"That would be what I mean, yes."

Sam half-sat up, careful at the last minute of the bunk above, and looked around a bit. "Though I didn't bring any condoms or lube or anything."

"Back wall, third drawer on the right."

Sam looked at Steve, then at the wall. He opened up the drawer, and sure enough, there they were. "I don't think I want to know."

"This is a fairly standard S.H.I.E.L.D. room design and S.H.I.E.L.D....does believe in equipping its agents."

"As I can see." Sam paused for a moment to let the beautiful man laid out beneath him drive out all prurient thoughts regarding Nick Fury.

"Considering the space, I figure it's best if I lie on my stomach," said Steve.

With a certain amount of clumsy groping--Steve was either profoundly distracted or doing it on purpose--they managed the position switch without getting either out of the bed, or out of contact with each other.

Sam took a moment or three just to appreciate Steve's back side; like his front side, a monument to human perfection marred by signs of human *imperfection* and violence.

And coincidentally, if most importantly, the sexiest male body Sam had ever laid eyes on. He kept his thoughts and admiration brief, though, confining himself to a bit of kissing and stroking as Steve signed in appreciation beneath him. What Steve was offering was too important to put off.

Steve had spread his legs as far as he could, in the small space available. Managing through some miracle to *not* hit his head on the upper bunk, Sam got himself in between the legs in a position to see where he was going as he opened up the SHIELD-issue lube and coated two of his fingers.

Sam bent to steal another kiss on the center of that perfect back and then worked on preparing him. Steve's reaction to penetration was as always very *conscious*; there was very brief instinctive tightening and then his control of *everything* took over and he relaxed, accepting first one, than two fingers easily.

When Sam's fingers found the prostate, Steve became ever so slightly less controlled. "Now," Steve said.

"Yes," Sam said simply. He quite agreed. The S.H.I.E.L.D. issue condom had an acronym on it (C.O.N.D.O.M.); secret agent organizations did indeed have everything. "This isn't going to explode or anything?" Some questions were important enough to ask, even in the heat of the moment.

"No." Steve looked over his shoulder. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s exploding condoms are stored separately, for special missions."

"...they *have* exploding condoms? Okay, I'm not going to ask."

"I believe you have better things to be doing!" Steve pulled Sam's head down and kissed him hard. "You should probably *use* that condom, before some emergency calls us away..."

"Point." No pun intended. Sam opened the wrapper, carefully; it did not, in fact, explode, yet. Nor did it explode when he put it on, or when he applied S.H.I.E.L.D. issue lube, although as he gazed at the man beneath him and thought about what he was preparing to do, Sam felt he might explode himself.

Another reason to get on with this. Steve's anus was blissfully tight and warm as he slid in, and when Steve pressed up against him, Sam's whole body was stretched out on top of him, his whole length inside.

Sam had never though he would be as close to Steve again, and he almost came on the spot. He had to lie there for a few seconds, enjoying the feeling, before starting to thrust. Steve thrust back just as hard, and when he lifted his hips from the bed, Sam reached beneath him to grab Steve's cock.

It didn't last too much longer after that, as much as Sam (and probably Steve as well) wanted it to last forever. As it almost *always* had happened in the past, Sam came a few seconds before Steve, but a few hard thrusts into Sam's fist took care of Steve as well, producing a minor mess of (what Steve looked very long-suffering whenever Sam called it) Super-Soldier semen.

They lay for a few precious minutes in a sweaty heap before Steve shifted in the way that meant that Sam was about to get ordered off of him. Sam moved, pulling out and discarding the condom while Steve dealt with the wet spot as best he could.

"Now, sleep," Sam said. Steve looked a little more relaxed, even as it was; it was too bad the accommodations didn't allow them to sleep side by side.

Steve smiled. "That would be the deal." He climbed back into bed. "Thank you so much, Sam. For everything."

"Thank *you*," Sam replied, and kissed him one final time before climbing back up to his bunk.

Ten minutes later, Luke Cage called them to the mission room. Rest would have to wait.


End file.
